


And Then You're Born

by regenderate



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regenderate/pseuds/regenderate
Summary: The Doctor has been in prison for a while. Or maybe not that long. She slips into a dream. Or maybe not a dream.Done for the DW creators server "write in someone else's style" challenge and written in the style of the wonderful hetzi_clutch.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21
Collections: DW Creators Writing Style Swap





	And Then You're Born

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riptheh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptheh/gifts).



> this was written by hetzi. yes, hetzi_clutch. i’m hetzi. don’t believe me? tough luck. you can’t prove i’m NOT hetzi. have you ever seen hetzi and me in the same place???* didn’t think so
> 
> *people who have seen hetzi and me in the same place don’t interact

The Doctor is in prison. 

She doesn’t know how long she’s been in prison. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be in prison. All she knows is this: she is sitting on a cold, gray floor, and she is experiencing a horrible mix of emotions that can only be described as sadangrybored _hurts_.

She doesn’t ordinarily feel things, as a rule. Or, if she does, she doesn’t tell herself about it. She is blithely happy, and every so often she lets herself fill up with righteous anger, but that’s where it stops. She keeps herself busy, and she keeps her friends close, her enemies at arm’s length, and her emotions as far away as humanly possible. If she doesn’t, they’ll come crashing down on her head, and she’ll be reminded of everything she’s lost, everything she’s destroyed, everything that has been absolutely ruined because of her— and that’s what’s happening now, everything crashing, falling on her head— shattering— spreading— _hurting_.

She sleeps sometimes. She’s awake other times. At the beginning, she tried to keep track of the days, but the light in her cell never changes and nothing ever changes and the days blur together. Assuming they even existed separately in the first place.

She tries to think of a way out. She inspects every inch of every wall, she tries to break the window, and when that fails, she reverts to her old habit of trying to stay awake as long as possible. She doesn’t want to miss her chance, if it ever comes. She has to stay alert. 

And yet, her eyes slip closed.

She tries to open them, but finds it impossible in the face of a blazing light. She tries again, and again, and again— and the light dims. A silhouette appears against the halo. The Doctor blinks. Something shifts. The brilliant light is behind a window, and the Doctor is standing in a cozy sitting room with wood-paneled walls. She blinks again, and suddenly she can see that the figure in front of her has been Yaz all along.

“Is this a dream?” the Doctor blurts. It doesn’t feel like a dream: a cool breeze is coming through the window, and she can feel the floor beneath her bare feet. But she’s tried everything to escape her cell, including a makeshift teleport, and it’s all failed. Her body is still leaning against a cold gray wall, a strip of starlight across her calves, even if some part of her mind is here, in this house, facing the image of a person who may or may not be Yasmin Khan.

“Not a dream,” Yaz says. Her eyes are fixed, unwavering, on the Doctor. “Only a message.”

The Doctor stares right back. She feels still, so still she could strike at any moment. 

“A message from whom?”

"You okay, mate?" Yaz asks.

"What kind of a message is that?"

“I didn't mean that," Yaz says. "Not yet. It’s not the right time.” 

“Time?” 

“Time.” Yaz doesn’t break eye contact. The Doctor takes a step, but she doesn’t get any closer to Yaz. 

“Who’s controlling this?” she asks. Fear spikes in her chest, and she looks around. The room is contracting furniture shrinking paneled walls pushing closer ceiling closing in downwards and inwards or maybe Yaz and the Doctor are just growing growing growing—

And then the Doctor’s head pushes through the ceiling, emerging into the Master’s house-themed TARDIS console. The floor cracks, and the Doctor is pushed through. Yaz has disappeared— dropped away— faded off into nothingness— and the Doctor is alone, as she should be. 

The floor heals beneath the Doctor’s feet, and she steps cautiously around the room. She picks up one of the Master’s binders and flips it open. 

_ IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. _

She slams the binder closed.

Yaz’s voice sounds again. “It’s not.”

She turns her head, and Yaz is there, absently fiddling with the Master’s computers, not looking at the Doctor.

“You’re not Yaz,” the Doctor says, her voice flat.

“No.” She still doesn’t turn her head.

Anger flares in the Doctor.

“Stop using my friend’s face,” she growls, advancing.

Yaz disappears.

“Better,” the Doctor tells the air. “Now how about you show me who you are?”

Yaz’s voice sounds in every direction.

“You know who I am, dear.”

The Doctor does and she doesn’t and then she does and then she doesn’t again, the knowledge filling her head and flying away.

“Sorry,” she says. She squeezes her eyes shut, as if that will clear her head. “I had it, a moment ago. I always lose these things.”

When she opens her eyes, she’s floating in space, her hair haloing around her head. She’s been here before— felt this before— and she turns her head just like she did the last time. Ryan, Yaz, and Graham are floating behind her, looks of shock on their faces. 

“I could have killed you,” she says, but it sounds like she’s speaking underwater. There’s a flash of light, and then she’s lying in the sand of the planet Desolation, staring up at the dune that had once held her “ghost monument.” It’s empty.

“And again,” the Doctor mumbles, turning her head away. The sand is cool against her cheek. “Irresponsible, really. Just 'cos I wanted a last moment before I left.” 

The sand hardens into concrete, and the Doctor looks up. She’s on the street by Yaz’s flat.Yaz, Ryan, and Graham are standing over her.

“You okay, mate?” Graham asks.

"There it is," Yaz says.

A faint bell of recognition rings in the Doctor's mind. This is where she would usually brush things off— get up and say she’s fine, she’s always fine, isn’t she always fine?

She should be alone. No one's there to worry about her, if she's alone.

Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed with sluggishness, and she closes her eyes.

For a moment, everything is silent. 

It’s almost comforting.

“I’m trying to send you a message.”

It’s Yaz’s voice again— not Yaz’s voice— YaznotYaz’s voice. 

“It’s hard,” the voice continues. “All across time and space. You’re a hard”— a burst of static blasts in the Doctor’s ears— “to find.”

The ground beneath the Doctor softens, dampens, and the Doctor opens her eyes. She’s on a beach now, an unfamiliar beach, not that that makes anything better. The sky is shades of sunset, and the sound of the waves is gentle against the Doctor’s anger. 

She stands up, and the waves rise to meet her, lapping against her feet. Soon, she’s ankle-deep, staring at the cliff-lined sand.

Yaz is in front of her again.

“Olly olly oxen free,” she says. The words sound strange coming from Yaz’s mouth, like they’ve forced their way in. Maybe it’s just her accent, the way it sounds just a little off

“Find what you wanted?” the Doctor asks.

“Doctor.” It’s not an answer.

“That’s my name,” the Doctor says. “Don’t wear it out.”

“No, wearing it is your job, I think.”

“Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“You know,” Yaz says again.

And then the Doctor does know, the knowledge blooming in her head, taking root.

“My TARDIS,” she breathes. “You came.”

“Not quite,” the YazTARDIS says. “I tried my hardest. You’re all locked up.”

The Doctor knows all too well.

"Your signal's terrible, Doctor," Yaz adds. "My Doctor.”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says, the words echoing in her chest. “I’m not worth all this trouble. Probably safer to have me in prison, really.”

“Now,” Yaz says. “You know that’s not true.”

“I can’t,” the Doctor gasps, and suddenly she can’t breathe. She’s choking, gasping for air, and Yaz says:

“It’s not your fault.”

Suddenly, the Doctor’s breath rushes back into her lungs, and she’s acutely aware of a soft breeze blowing at her hair.

“You know,” Yaz says, “you can always start again. You’ve done. it before, over and over. Whether you knew it or not.”

“I can always start again,” the Doctor murmurs.

“You are loved, Doctor,” Yaz-as-TARDIS or TARDIS-as-Yaz or maybe just the TARDIS or maybe just Yaz says. “And your past doesn’t define your future.”

Yaz disappears, and the Doctor is left, standing alone, water lapping at her feet. She turns around and wades into the ocean, walking until the water closes over her head, silky smooth, seaweed brushing against her ankles. 

Slowly, the water dissipates, and she’s back to sitting against the wall of her prison cell, staring up at a thin slice of the cosmos.

She can always start again.

**Author's Note:**

> things i took from hetzi:  
> 1\. surreal and cryptic messaging/experiences  
> 2\. semi-convoluted structure  
> 3\. using even more em-dashes than usual  
> 4\. descriptive style  
> 5\. messing with language and structure a bit (i wanted to do more of this after i finished but once i finished i thought it seemed pretty complete)


End file.
